


However Improbable

by Birdsquirrel



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Dark!Joan, Gen, Joaniarty if you squint, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:48:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdsquirrel/pseuds/Birdsquirrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty had been his downfall once, and now she was again. This time, however, he was nothing more than collateral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Opening - Collateral

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I've written of more than a couple hundred words, and the first that I'm posting somewhere other than just my tumblr. It is un-beta'd, and based primarily on a creepy dream I had, so it might be a slight mess.

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

How often had he guided himself by this tenet? How often had he sought comfort in its dependability, drawn strength and certainty from it? But now…

 _You cannot by knowledge of someone limit what behavior is possible from them, only what is probable_ , he told himself. There remained to him only one possible explanation for his situation, and he did not want to believe it. He’d rather- _much rather_ \- believe he had missed some vital piece of evidence, misinterpreted the data. He’d rather believe some vital part of existence had shifted, like a tectonic plate dislodging from its holdings to grind into a new position, changing the landscape of reality.

He would rather believe that, but he didn’t.


	2. Boots & Heels

Sherlock kept his eyes downcast as he knelt on the concrete floor. His arms were tied behind him. The thugs who had done it had some idea of his abilities with rope and locks; they’d used duct tape to bind his hands into closed fists and a complex lattice of knotted cord to immobilize his arms just below his shoulder blades. More cord bound his legs together. They had cut away his clothes, all except for his boxers, and searched every pocket and seam of everything he had been wearing, quickly finding his assortment of picklocks and small blades. Then they’d loaded him into a van, driven for some time, and left him here in this dark room.

Where “here” was, he wasn’t sure. Normally, he would have been able to keep track of the shifts on the van as it turned and accelerated. Normally, he would’ve been able keep track of the patterns of light as it filtered through the van’s windows and the crunch of the wheels against pavement and figured out where he was. They’d anticipated that, too. He had been blindfolded for the duration of the ride, with noise-cancelling headphones clamped tightly over his ears, and then they’d administered a drug that made him terribly dizzy, such that he could only lay face down on the floor of the van and try not to puke. It had begun wear off before they reached their destination, but it served its purpose- he had no real idea where he was. He didn’t think the ride had lasted more than three hours, but given the thorough obstruction of his senses, he couldn’t be certain of that, either.

The warehouse they had left him in was utterly nondescript. He was in an aisle between stacks of shipping containers, none of which were marked with any brand or logo. If there were windows, they had been covered; the only light came from a rope of dim LEDs that had been looped in a roughly four foot radius of him and plugged into an extension cord that snaked into the shadows beyond him. The concrete floors weren’t brand new, but he couldn’t see them well enough to make an inspection of their scratches and scuffs. The air was chill and dry, but he could not tell whether that was through neglect or design. He couldn’t hear a ventilation system, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

He had been kneeling for some minutes when he heard two sets of footsteps coming towards him. One was slightly muffled, thudding but not heavy- someone fairly light in boots. The other was unmistakable. _Clackclack clackclack clackclack_. Heels. The sound, its exact pattern and quality, was intimately familiar to him. He knew the precise pair from which it came, their wear, and- inarguably- their wearer. It was all he could do to hold back a sob. They stopped outside of the circle of light, then Moriarty came forward. He did not raise his eyes any further than necessary to recognise her boots.

“You know,” she said, voice as casual and careless as though they sat together in a coffee shop, “I had thought I would enjoy seeing you like this, all defeated and helpless. I had thought it would be so satisfying. Now, though, it just seems to fall flat of my expectations. You’re just a man, aren’t you? Without a chance to act clever, you’re just as gutless and dull as anyone.”

He didn’t answer her, because there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t provoke her. He only stared at the floor and concentrated on keeping his face and posture clear of expression. She walked closer, stopping just far enough away that if he threw himself forward he would not knock her off balance.

“I’ve waited for this day for a while. Never thought it would be quite like this. Funny how that is, isn’t it?”

He kept silent.

“I asked you a question, Sherlock. It’s rude not to answer.”

He moved his gaze up, slightly, watching her thighs so he saw the moment she began her kick. He could do nothing but drop awkwardly to his side. She laughed, then nudged him onto his back with her foot. He grunted with pain as his arms were pressed painfully into his back, but finally looked her in the eyes. She smiled at him.

“That’s more like you, Sherlock. Now are you going to say anything?”

He turned his face from her to the person standing outside of the ring of light.

“Why?” he asked.

The heels resumed their clacking, and Joan stepped into the light.


	3. Back into Position

Joan’s expression was one of intense interest. She stared at his prone form with the same open fascination she had once shown when he explained his deductions. For a moment she stood beside Moriarty above him. Then she knelt and pulled him back up into his previous position.

“I got a better offer,” she said, voice as gentle as though she were speaking to a child. He tried to stop himself from crying, but, while he did not make a noise, his body shook with choked sobbing and tears ran down his cheeks. Joan cradled his head in her hands and wiped the tears away with her thumb, looking directly into his eyes.

“You have taught me so much, Sherlock, and I’m grateful- I am. But I need more if I’m going to continue to advance, and Jamie can give that to me. We’ve both agreed though: in order for our partnership to work, you have to be out of the picture. I’m sorry.”

That was what broke him. She sounded as though she meant it, though he knew she couldn’t really; he knew “sorry” wasn’t enough for something like this. He curled in on himself as he cried, loud and echoing in the warehouse. Joan pulled him forward, holding him against her and rubbing circles on his back, and he could do nothing but lean into her embrace as the sobs wracked him. Eventually, he settled into shaky breaths. He tried, weakly, to pull away, but bound as he was it was a useless endeavor. Moriarty reached down and placed a hand on Joan’s shoulder, and Joan pushed him back to kneeling before she stood up. Moriarty reached into her coat, pulling out a pistol and handing it to Joan, who accepted it but held it gingerly.

Suddenly, he found himself enraged at the both of them. He had known something like this was coming, of course, had seen the evidence pile up of the second great betrayal of his life before he had even been attacked, but until now hadn’t been properly _angry_. He had been hurt, had been confused and sorrowful and more than a little afraid, but he had kept trying to convince himself that he had it wrong, that Joan would never hurt him. He could deny it no longer. She was very carefully and very surely adjusting her grasp on the gun until she held it in the proper grip, glancing away from it from only a fraction of a second to check on him.

He shifted his weight, preparing to launch himself against her knees and knock her to the ground, but Moriarty saw the movement and grabbed the lattice of binding between his arms. She yanked up, nearly wrenching his arms from their sockets, then threw him to the ground and began kicking. He curled, trying to protect his head and abdomen from her relentless blow and failing miserably.

“Be careful,” Watson said after a long moment. “Don’t hit his face. I want to us to be able to look at each other.”

Moriarty snorted, bringing a boot down on one of his shoulders, but stopped her volley of kicks. He looked between them.

“Mycroft will figure out what happened. Bell, too. They’ll come after you.”

Watson laughed, softly, eyes still on the gun in the hands.

“I hope so. We’ve made enough plans for them after all.”

“They’ll bring _hell_ down on you. They’ll make sure you’re logged in every damned criminal database in the world. They will run you down.”

Moriarty rolled him onto his stomach, relocating her foot to the base of his neck.

“It’s endearing that you think that,” she said sweetly, “You have so much faith in your friends, given the circumstances.”

He shuddered there on the ground, but continued.

“Gregson will come after you, too. You won’t stand a chance.”

“This is getting tiresome, Sherlock,” said Moriarty, grinding her boot down hard on his neck. Watson took a deep breath.

“Move him back into position,” she said. “I’m ready.”

Together they hauled him once more onto his knees. Beaten as he was, he could barely remain upright. They dragged him to the side of one of the shipping containers, propping him back against it. He glared at them. With her left hand, Watson ruffled his hair gently. The she bent just low enough to kiss the center of his forehead.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” she murmured into his hair. He sighed, schooling his face as blank as possible and sitting up as straight as he could.

“Goodbye, Watson.”

 


End file.
